


getting good at getting by

by mirkandmidnight



Category: Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bolshevik!Dmitry, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, It's All Very Russian, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Redemption, but in a wholesome way don't worry i gotchu
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-04-19 09:10:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14233992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirkandmidnight/pseuds/mirkandmidnight
Summary: Dmitry, disinclined to submitting to a life of crime without trying something else first, tries to find a job with the new Bolshevik order, and to his surprise, is hired by Gleb Vaganov.Five years later, when a lost Romanov returns, things turn out pretty much exactly the same.





	1. prologue

It was late in the afternoon on a Friday at the end of September when the young man with the scruffy hair, ripped clothes, and blinding smile walked into Gleb Vaganov's office on the Nevsky Boulevard and asked for a job. He had no history of previous employment, no references, and no resume, but despite it all, there was something about him one couldn't just look away from.

It was something in his air, Gleb finally decided, something in the way he walked into a room and looked around like he owned it. No one owned anything, not anymore, but looking at this mere child, you'd never know it. It wasn't arrogance, not exactly, but something closer to quiet, unacknowledged power. Had there been anyone else there, Gleb had no doubt the boy would have been pulling the strings in the room in under ten minutes.

He should have sent the boy packing the moment he walked in. There was no room for charity, not in the new order, but the more he talked, the more Gleb found himself wanting to oblige him. He was passionate, that was certain, but the question was, could he manage to function that passion into something useful? Without purpose, without drive, and respect for law and order, there was no doubt in his mind that the young man would be back on the street, and all that potential would be wasted, lost to a life of crime, vice, and iniquity.

Someone had to take this young man in hand, show him that the new order only wanted to help, that there was a point to all the new rules and regulations, and that if one tried, a good, decent, upstanding life could be had. If not, well, ten years down the road, he could be dead.

"It would be a pleasure to work with you," Gleb finally said, startling the young man in the middle of a sentence, something about work ethic, possibly.

"What -- Really?" His face split into a wide smile, and he shook Gleb's hand enthusiastically. "Thank you very much! I won't let you down, I promise."

Gleb shook his hand, a little less vigorously, and nodded. "Welcome to the new order, Comrade -- ?" He trailed off, raising his eyebrows.

"Dmitry Sudayev," he supplied, retracting his hand, and heading for the door. "I'll be here on Monday. Nine o'clock?"

"Try eight o'clock. Sharp." The boy deflated, and Gleb allowed himself a tiny, satisfied smile. He went to the window and looked out over the Nevsky Prospekt, watching the snowflakes fall in tiny flurries. Winter was coming, and it was bound to be a rough one. They got worse every year.

Across the street, a sweeper looked up at the window of his office. She was a frail little thing, no more than early twenties, with a tattered brown coat wrapped around herself. With a shock, Gleb realized she was looking right at him. He almost took a step back, but stopped himself. There was no way. It was just a fluke, he thought, a trick of the light, as she turned and scurried back down the street, sweeping pieces of refuse. Just another one of the many hopeless cases of Leningrad.

Three floors below, he spotted the young man exit the building and start down the street in the opposite direction, pulling the collar of his coat up around his neck against the cold. Dmitry Sudayev, Gleb thought, the faint smile returning. Now there was a young man with potential. Five, ten years down the line, who knew where he would be?


	2. a rumor in st. petersburg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rumor, the legend, the mystery.

Five years later, Dmitry was leaning on Gleb's desk, peering over his shoulder as he sifted through paperwork, and generally making a nuisance of himself. "You know what I think would be nice?"

Gleb hardly looked up from his paperwork, the lead of his pencil scratching in an even rhythm across the paper. They had run out of ink for their pens the previous week, and as of yet, the budget hadn't allowed any replacements. "I'm not paying you to think," he said, voice as dry as bone.

Dmitry was unfazed. "You're hardly paying me at all." Gleb sighed, which he took as encouragement to continue. It wasn't an outright dismissal, at the very least. "You know what I think?" he repeated, squinting in a vain attempt to try and make out Gleb's cramped handwriting.

"What," Gleb said, finally looking up. He raised one eyebrow, which would have intimidated anyone else, but Dmitry could barely make out the beginning of a smile on his face. He grinned. At least he'd gotten a reaction out of him, this time. It was so easy to annoy Gleb, it almost wasn't worth the effort. And besides, after the monotony of a full morning of work, they'd both take whatever distraction they could get. "What do you think?"

"I think we should get some tea from that new shop just down the street." It had opened just last week, and Dmitry knew full well that if he didn't get out of this office soon, they would be at each other's throats by mid afternoon.

But Gleb couldn't make anything easy, had in fact made it a point to make things as difficult as possible over the last five years, saying asinine things about discipline, and having a proper respect for the rule of law, and not wasting his considerable potential. Sneaking out of the office to get tea, and maybe a bite to eat, would be the last thing he'd approve of. 

He set down his pencil and steepled his hands under his chin, looking at Dmitry as if he was considering the long list of his previous sins, and weighing them against the considerably longer list of future ones. "That's not a very good use of government time," he finally said, which wasn't as hard of a no as Dmitry had been anticipating. "Besides. I have paperwork. You have paperwork." He gestured towards Dmitry's tiny, battered desk in the corner of the room, and the hefty stack of papers there. "You have quite a bit of paperwork, actually. What have you been _doing_ all morning?"

Dmitry's smile went a little strained as he tried to skate past that question. "Look, it's not a waste of government time if we're talking to people." He made a vague, illustrative gesture in the direction of the window. "You know, collecting information, keeping an ear to the gossip, protecting the interests of the state." It was a paper thin excuse, really, but it was a beautiful day, rare for this time of year. He could hardly be blamed for wanting to get out of the cramped office.

Gleb followed his gesture to the window, and for a moment, he could see an almost vulnerable expression cross his face, a strange wistfulness. It was possibly the most human he'd seemed in the five years they'd known each other. Then he looked back down at his papers, and a solid wall came crashing down on his expression.

"You go ahead," he said, pencil scratching out its staccato rhythm on the paper once more. "Be back in an hour. Do try to bring back some useful information."

Dmitry's face split into a wide smile as he pulled his coat on and headed for the door. The victory was unexpected, but all the more delightful for that. He was almost out the door when Gleb's voice brought him up short.

"And, Dmitry," he continued, the barest hint of a smile crossing his face. Dmitry pushed down a surge of fear that he'd suddenly changed his mind, that he was going to be stuck to his desk all afternoon as well. He took a breath and looked back at Gleb.

"Yes?"

"Bring me back a pastry, will you?"

***

The problem with going out to collect information, Dmitry realized, was that no one wanted to talk to you if you were in uniform. Any time he tried to speak to someone, it was all "Leningrad is such a lovely place," or "Don't you think the new government is doing such a wonderful job of keeping order? I feel so safe and protected." It was irritating, and more than a little frustrating, to say the least. The only thing he'd really heard were the usual rumors of the week, this time about the possible return of the Grand Duchess Anastasia. Which was ridiculous. The girl was dead, had been dead for years, and whispers weren't going to be enough to resurrect her. Would that they could, he thought, in a burst of uncharacteristic bitterness.

Well, he still had plenty of time. Dmitry started in the direction of the tea shop on the corner, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking down at the dirty streets. Where were the street sweepers? It wasn't usually this dirty outside the office, and although it wasn't really a problem, there were still standards to maintain.

He spotted a young woman with a broom about ten meters away, working busily, and smiled. Good. Things were as they should be. It took a moment for the realization to hit him that he was starting to sound like Gleb. Christ.

But his train of thought was cut short by the sudden report of a truck backfiring, and the street sweeper's shriek of terror. Her broom clattered to the ground and she followed, curling into herself as she shook and sobbed on the pavement. Dmitry glanced around for any passerby, hoping someone she knew might come along to help her. But no one was coming, and meanwhile, she didn't look like she'd be recovering any time soon.

He steeled himself, releasing the tension in his own shoulders at the shock of the sound, and took a few hesitant steps towards her, crouching low so as to appear less of a threat. "It was a truck backfiring, comrade," he said quietly, trying to channel Gleb as much as he could. He would know what to do, how to handle something like this. Dmitry was well aware of his own woeful inadequacy as far as that went. "That's all it was."

Her head jerked up at the sound of his voice, and she stared at him with piercing blue eyes. Dmitry felt his breath catch in his throat. Even terrified, she was beautiful. She'd been here every day for as long as he had. How had he never noticed?

Dmitry shook himself. Right now, she was afraid, and he wasn't about to prey on some terrified woman he didn't even know. He had to help, or at least offer his assistance. He held out a hand to her slowly, still trying not to startle her. "Dmitry Sudayev," he said. "Can I give you a hand up?"

Slowly, her breathing evened out, and she gave a jerky little nod and took his hand. Her fingers were freezing, he noted, and she wore no gloves. Dmitry rose slowly, helping her to stand, and smiled. "What's your name?"

She took a shuddering breath and dusted off her clothes, then looked up again to meet his eyes. "Anya," she said, offering him a shy smile in return, and for a moment, Dmitry thought his heart might stop beating. With a smile like that, she could break anyone's heart. "Thank you for helping me," she continued, and he forced himself to concentrate. This was no time to act foolishly. But then, her gaze travelled down to his uniform, and she went still, eyes widening.

He took a step back, holding his hands up in a pacifying gesture. "Don't worry, it's not -- I'm not --" Dmitry paused, trying to think of the right thing to say. The way she was looking at him, it was like she'd seen a ghost. "I'm not going to arrest you or anything, I just -- You looked like you needed the help." Well. Now he'd thoroughly made a fool of himself, the girl showed no signs of relaxing, and he still hadn't gotten any tea.

Dmitry swallowed hard and looked down at her hands, tinged with blue from the cold, and quickly stripped off his own gloves, holding them out to her. "I'm sorry I scared you. Please take these."

She looked between his face and the gloves a few times, scrutinizing him, and then, to his relief, seemed to relax. "You didn't scare me, I just--" Doubt and fear flickered across her face, but then her expression cleared. "I thought you were someone else, for a moment." Hesitantly, she reached out and plucked the gloves from his hands, as though afraid he'd yank them back any second. "Thank you. They're very beautiful. I shouldn't."

"No, no, you should. You need them. It's freezing out." Dmitry tried for a friendly expression, half afraid that she'd brush him off, or worse, start to panic again.

Finally, Anya tugged on the gloves, turning her hands a few times to inspect them. They were almost comically large on her small hands, but it didn't seem to bother her, and after all, Dmitry thought, something was better than nothing. She looked back up at him, studying his uniform, then his face. "You don't act very much like a ... government worker," she ventured, seeming to choose her words very carefully.

Dmitry caught her meaning, and looked down with an ironic smile. Others in his profession seemed more likely to bluster in the streets about making a new world than whatever it was he thought he was doing here. Helping? That was a joke. He'd probably caused more harm than he'd helped at all.

"Well," he said, kicking at a pebble with the scuffed toe of his shoe, "let's just say I'm not very good at what I do." It wasn't even a lie, not really. His superiors had often lamented his lack of focus, and although he tried not to be a let down to Gleb, who had taken a chance hiring him in the first place, he didn't have much patience for this kind of work. There was something dirty about it, he thought, about prying into people's personal lives, even if it was to keep the greater majority of people safe.

A smile tugged at the corner of Anya's mouth, and she bent to pick up her abandoned broom. "Well, I think you're doing just fine," she said, and started to walk away.

Dmitry panicked. He had no other explanation for it. "Let me take you to tea," he blurted, heart racing, barely managing to get the words out without stammering. When had he gotten so bad at this? Clearly he'd been spending too much time cooped up in the office and not enough talking to real, living people. Gleb hardly counted, stern as he was.

Anya turned, her smile widening a little as she considered him. Then her face fell, and she shrugged. "I can't. I can't lose this job. They're not easy to come by." She paused, and the smile started to return. "But you should ask me again tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Dmitry tried in vain to suppress the rising feeling of delight. He was a grown man, dammit, he _was_ , and he wasn't about to let some girl he hardly knew make him lose his cool. "What will happen if I ask you tomorrow?"

"I might say yes." With that, Anya turned and walked away in the direction of the Yusupov palace. Dmitry watched her go for a few steps, then turned towards the tea shop, unable to keep the smile off his face. He checked his watch, and cursed under his breath. He had less than fifteen minutes to get back, and he hadn't even had his tea yet.

***

Seventeen minutes later saw him bursting into the office, a pastry in one hand and a paper cup of tea in the other, just barely managing not to spill the scalding contents onto his bare hands. "I'm back," he announced, setting the pastry down on Gleb's desk.

Gleb folded his newspaper down to peer down at the pastry, then back up at him. "You're late," he said, voice flat. Then he set down the newspaper and started to unwrap the pastry. "Did you find out anything interesting?"

Dmitry took a sip of the tea and sighed contentedly, closing his eyes and inhaling the steam rising off it. He opened his eyes at the question, and raised his eyebrows. "Nothing new. Rumors. Apparently the Princess Anastasia is back." He gave a skeptical look at that, as if to demonstrate just what he thought of those rumors.

But Gleb just looked pensive, and made a note on the pad of paper on his desk. Dmitry's face fell a little at that, and he took another sip of his tea, thinking it over again. She couldn't be back. She'd been dead for years, the whole family had been. Gleb was just being cautious. He always was. They weren't coming back, and he wasn't going to see her again. He had to stop dreaming.

"Where are your gloves?" 

"What?" The question sent him careening out of his reverie, and for a moment, he had to try and process exactly what it was he was being asked. It was just like Gleb to notice something so insignificant. "You sound just like my father," he said, with a faint smile, the closest he ever got to openly making fun. Not that he'd had a basis for comparison of his father for years, but it was the kind of thing they said to each other.

"I'm not," Gleb said, taking a bite of the pastry. He ate in the same way he did everything, quick, precise, and efficient, without any wasted motions or mess.

"I know." He hadn't seen his father since he was much twelve, or so. They'd been close. It had made it all the more shattering when he'd gone missing. His mother shook her head and told him not to ask, and so he hadn't. Dmitry shook his head, trying to shake off the sudden wave of melancholy at the reminder of him. No one cared about that here. "Besides, I don't want to think about you as a ten year old with my mother."

Gleb sighed and set down the pastry. "Must you?"

Dmitry grinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spot the lyric references!


	3. in my dreams

In the dream, he was sixteen again, long limbed and lanky and clueless, the world exploding into chaos around him, and he had no way of understanding if it could be fixed at all. In the dream, he woke up and walked into the kitchen of the cramped little apartment he and his parents shared, hair hanging in front of his eyes, still yawning and bleary with sleep. There had been screaming in the streets all night. That he remembered. It had been chaos for weeks before, starting with the execution of the tsar and his family.

Dmitry's mother was at the kitchen table, eyes red from weeping, shoulders convulsing with noiseless sobs, and for a long moment he just stood there staring at her, unable to say anything, unable to move. Finally, he got his bearing back and ran to her, putting a hand on her shoulder.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "Where's Father?"

She turned to look at him, and took a shuddering breath, then buried her face in his shoulder, clutching at him as if he might disappear too. "He's gone," she gasped out.

The dream warped around him, and it was two years later in the dead of winter. HIs lips were going blue with cold. They had no money for coal. No one else did either, which was the only consolation he could think of. His mother was shivering next to him, and they huddled under the one blanket they had, trying to conserve as much warmth as possible.

"Dima," she said, resting her cheek against his shoulder. He could feel the cold of it through his thin shirt, but he didn't pull away. "Take my wedding ring, and go sell it. Get the best price you can, and buy yourself a coat." She fumbled her hands and pried the ring off, putting it in his hands.

Dmitry stared down at it in disbelief. "Mama, I can't," he said, voice breaking, and tried to give it back to her. "I can't, I can't sell Father's ring." If he sold the ring, that would mean Father wouldn't be coming back, it would mean he was --

"Go, Dima," his mother said, voice stronger than it had been in the two years since his father -- Not died. He wasn't dead. He was coming back. She gripped his chin with cold, narrow fingers, forcing him to make eye contact. Hot tears pricked at his eyes, but he kept them down by will alone. "Do this for me. We have to live." She took a shaky breath and attempted a weak smile. "Your father would understand."

He hesitated a moment too long, and she tugged the blanket off him and pushed him gently towards the door. "Go on," she said. "I'll be fine here." She looked so pale and thin, Dmitry thought. It was like she'd aged a decade in the two years it had been.

"I'll be right back," he promised, and went for the door.

It warped again, and he was back, buttoning his newly purchased coat up tight around him with a secretive smile on his face. As painful as it was to sell the ring, there'd been enough money left over to buy a little coal and some bread. Dmitry opened the door to the tiny apartment and looked around. "Mama?" he called.

No answer. He frowned and went back to the thin mattress, where he'd left her, and his heart skipped a beat. She was flat on her back, the blanket askew, eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling. "Mama!" He rushed to her side and shook her shoulder. "Mama, please --" his voice cracked, but he didn't care, couldn't care. She wasn't dead, she couldn't be dead --! This wasn't how it happened, it wasn't--

With a gasp, Dmitry woke up, sitting bolt upright. It was 1929, he was 28 years old, his mother had been dead for close to a year, and that was his life. Still, the thought of it had him pulling his knees to his chest and staring wide eyed at the opposite wall, breaths coming fast and shallow. He made a wordless sound of despair and rested his head on his knees, closing his eyes and concentrating on evening out his breathing.

It had been a while since his last nightmare, and certainly a while since he'd had one that strong. Dmitry pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes so hard he saw stars, and let out a breath. He hda to get this under control, somehow. He couldn't let this keep happening, or people were going to start to catch on to his act. He was surprised Gleb hadn't already noticed, given how perceptive he usually was.

He glanced at the clock, and sighed. No point in going back to sleep now. Might as well get up and face the day. Dmitry dressed quickly, mind wandering from his buttons. It wasn't until he'd fumbled the same button three times that he looked down and noticed that his hands were trembling. He clenched them into fists and closed his eyes. Christ, what a disaster.

A few minute later, he managed to make it out the door, all his buttons done up properly and coat pulled tight around himself. The morning was chilly, chillier than it should have been for this time of year, but he hardly noticed it, wrapped up in his own thoughts. One of these days spring was going to come, and one of these days, he was going to have to pull himself together, Dmitry thought, smiling wryly. That's what people kept telling him, anyway.

"Dmitry Sudayev?" a familiar voice called, stopping him in his tracks. Dmitry's head shot up, and with some considerable confusion realized that he was on the same block as his office, and that Anya was standing on the sidewalk, one hand raised to shield her eyes from the bright morning light. With her other hand, she waved clumsily, still clutching her broom in a vise grip. "I thought that was you. You're not usually out here this early."

Dmitry broke into a smile and started towards her, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Well, you know, there's no rest for the wicked, or so they tell me." He noted with a strange, rising delight that she was wearing the gloves he'd given her.

"Are you the wicked?" The expression on her face might have been teasing, but he found he didn't mind at all. The fact that she was getting fresh with him was a surprise in and of itself.

"I don't know about that," he said, the grin remaining firmly in place. "If I can't sleep, I suppose I must be." It was an easier explanation than what had actually happened, and one more palatable to a girl he hardly knew.

Anya looked a little closer at him, and Dmitry was keenly aware of how he must have looked, disheveled, exhausted, dark circles painted purple and blue under his eyes. Something flickered across her face. It felt like recognition. She set the broom down, took off one glove and got right up close, peering into his face. He tried to look away, but her hand came up to his chin, tilting his face back towards her. Dmitry could hardly breathe, heart knocking a staccato rhythm against his ribs, but he didn't dare move, the cool press of her fingers freezing him to the spot.

"Bad dreams?" she asked.

He let out a shaky laugh. "Is it that obvious?" When had he become so easy to read?

Anya released his chin, looking troubled. "No, I just...know the feeling." She forced a smile, tugging the glove back on. "Tell me about it, if you want. That helps, sometimes."

And he had no reason to tell her anything, he knew. It would be in his best interest to keep quiet, to pretend nothing was wrong. But he didn't want to pretend he was alright. He'd spent far too long doing it, and if he didn't let out some of the hurt now, he might never get up the nerve to do it. So he took a deep breath and shifted uncomfortably, and spoke. "It was about my parents," Dmitry said slowly. It was an effort to get each word out without his voice trembling. "My father went missing when I was sixteen. We had nothing to live on. We were freezing to death." 

Dmitry risked a look up at her. Anya was biting her lower lip, eyes wide and sympathetic. Why was it so easy to tell her these things? "I'm sorry," she said, voice low. "That must have been hard." She gave him a tiny, bleak smile. "I don't remember my family at all." She reached up to push back her hair, revealing a long scar, starting at her hairline and extended back onto her scalp, half obscured. "First thing I remember is waking up in a hospital at seventeen. Apparently memory loss is common with head injuries."

The strange thing was, it didn't look like any head injury Dmitry had seen before. It was odd, and puckered, though shallow. Much deeper, and -- Well. He didn't like to think of that.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Anya continued. "Losing a father must have been difficult."

A father? Dmitry shook his head and took a step back. "No, he's not dead," he said, and hated the way it came out uncertain. "He's not dead."

Anya swallowed hard. "But I thought -- He disappeared, didn't he?"

And Dmitry could read between the lines of that question. It had been a hard couple of years, neighbor turning against neighbor, people coming in the middle of the night to take away dissidents. They never came back. There were rumors of work camps in the Siberian tundrea, but he didn't know anything about that. The only thing that was really known was that people who vanished without a trace didn't come back.

His father was going to come back. His father was go ing to come back, because if he didn't, that would mean -- That would mean that --

"He's coming back," Dmitry said suddenly, voice cracking.

"Of course." Anya wrapped her arms around herself and looked up at him with wide eyes. "Of course, I'm sorry." Then her eyes focused on something behind him, and she tensed up visibly. "Excuse me, I have to get back to work."

Dmitry turned around to see Gleb coming up the street behind him, only yards away. He inclined his head to Anya, who looked as if she'd seen a ghost. 

"What is it?" Dmitry asked, bewildered.

"He looks just like his father," Anya said, barely audible under her breath, then shook herself, as if she was confused herself by what she'd said. "Good morning, Comrade Vaganov," she called, then gave Dmitry a little wave and scurried off in the direction of the Yusupov palace.

How entirely strange, Dmitry thought, and shoved his hands into his coat pockets to wait for Gleb. It only took him a moment to catch up, and when he did, his brow was furrowed, but he didn't look entirely displeased. "Was that street sweeper wearing your gloves?"

This, he knew how to handle. Dmitry shrugged one shoulder, affecting a nonchalant air. "Is that a problem, Comrade?" he asked, accenting the last word.

Gleb frowned at that, and nudged his shoulder. "No. It's about time you got a life. You're welcome to whatever flings you want, so long as they don't affect work." He stepped away, in the direction of the office. "Come on, now, we have work to do. Apparently there's some truth to those rumors about the princess Anastasia."

"What?" Dmitry exclaimed, but Gleb just laughed, and beckoned him to follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay! Life got kind of crazy with a show I was in, but here's a chapter!


	4. interlude

There was a reason, Dmitry thought, that he much preferred to let Gleb run interrogations by himself. He just had more skill at it. He was the kind of man who could intimidate the truth out of someone twice his size and not break a sweat doing it.

Example: now. Scene: their office, midmorning. The characters: Dmitry, sprawling at his tiny desk, trying not to look like he was listening in on their conversation, though by the way he was actually doing paperwork for once, he suspected it was a rather obvious ruse. Gleb was at his desk, flipping through a manila folder, while three dirty young women crowded around him, talking over each other about the princess Anastasia.

"She's a street sweeper," the first one said. She was clearly the leader, taking the only chair while the other two stood, and there was a considerable amount of venom in her voice. "She was sleeping under a bridge until she took up with them."

That could be any one of the poor young women of St. Petersburg. Dmitry inched his desk a little closer, trying to make out more of their conversation. The sound of typewriters and the office chatter were making it distinctly hard to hear. Although he didn't like the sound of this girl being a street sweeper. It stirred a tiny spark of worry in his gut into flame.

Now the second one was speaking. Dmitry tried again to get closer and remain unnoticed. "Her name is--"

The desk shrieked across the linoleum tile, and Dmitry looked down, cheeks burning red. The group at the other desk turned to look at him, expressions ranging from confused to nervous to annoyed. Gleb cleared his throat, closing the folder.

"Do you have something to say, comrade?" he asked, perfectly pleasant. His lips twitched like he was about to laugh, but didn't quite know how to let the sound out without a fight.

"No." Dmitry shook his head. "Just, uh, had a brief desk...malfunction. Nothing to worry about. Please carry on." He bit his lip. What kind of pathetic explanation was that? A _desk malfunction_? And worst of all, he hadn't even caught this girl's name over the sound of his desk screeching across the floor. She'd said it, and it had been his own stupidity that had kept him from hearing.

"Aren't you going to arrest them?" The third one took a step forward, got a look at the expression on Gleb's face, and immediately stepped back.

"You've done your duty." Gleb opened the folder again and made a note, not bothering to look at her. Dmitry frowned. Was that a note of disappointment in his voice at the news that this Anastasia was an imposter? Surely not. It was better for everyone that if Anastasia was alive, which she couldn't be, she stayed out of sight and out of mind. The new order was fixing things, they didn't need her back from the dead and upsetting the tenuous peace they had achieved. Dmitry only wished the thought didn't feel hollow to him. "And I've done mine, listening to your gossip."

"It's not gossip, it's the truth!" The leader of the three put her hands on the desk, eyes flashing, and Dmitry winced. This was not going to go well for her.

Gleb looked up from the folder and slammed his hand down, inches away from hers, and she pulled them back in an instant, eyes wide and terrified. Dmitry stood, chair screeching, heart pounding. He froze in place, unsure what to do or how to react. The silence dragged on interminably, Gleb glaring across the desk at the girl, seemingly poised to attack. From the look on the girl's face, she definitely believed he would do it, and Dmitry couldn't find it in him to disagree.

Finally, though, he gave a wolfish smile, and stood, coming around the desk to stand in front of her. Her two friends exchanged glances, and stepped back, leaving her to her fate. Gleb cracked his knuckles with a decided air of nonchalance, and put a finger under her chin, tipping her head up to meet his gaze. She did it without fear, and Dmitry couldn't help being a little impressed.

"The next time I see the three of you soliciting on Theater Street," he said, completely serious, "I won't look the other way." He let go of the girl's chin, and she and her friends turned tail and fled the office. Dmitry felt a little of the tension in his chest release.

"Was all of that completely necessary?" he asked, leaning against his desk with his usual self assured smile, though there's a distinct edge of relief to it. "I mean, come on. You scared the girl out of her wits."

Gleb sank back into the chair and looked over the file once more. "If she's lying, then it can't look like I believed her for a moment. If she's telling the truth, which is highly unlikely, well, I intend to look into it anyway." He sighed, slumping forward to rest his elbows on the desk. "I thought this time there might actually be something, but no. Just a couple of actresses complaining about some _street sweeper_ in the Yusupov Palace that they think _might_ be pretending to be Anastasia.”

Dmitry forced a grin. The Yusupov Palace, he thought, and the smile went tight and strained. A street sweeper, they'd said. He thought of Anya, broom in hand, always heading towards the Yusupov Palace. Not possible, he reminded himself sternly. Anya wasn't a fool. She wouldn't play games like this. Still...

"You'll catch her," he said, sitting back down at his desk. "If she's out there." And she might not even be out there. But Gleb would give chase anyway, because that's what he was. He never could leave a stone unturned.

Gleb tapped his pencil against the edge of his desk, thinking. "A street sweeper," he muttered, then looked up, pinning Dmitry with an intense look. "You're seeing that street sweeper Anya, yes?"

"I mean, I don't know about seeing her, but --"

"Whatever you're calling it." He waved a hand. "Look, I don't care if you're seeing her, if you're having an affair with her, if you're mooning after her like some lovesick child--"

"Lovesick?" Dmitry sputtered, but Gleb just kept going.

"--just find out if she knows this girl. This is now your first priority." With that, he went back to his files, as though that were an acceptable or even reasonable end to the conversation. Dmitry just stared at him for a moment.

"I'm not lovesick." It was probably the least important part of what's been said, but still, he felt the need to press the point.

Gleb looked up, eyes narrowing. There was a decided flicker of amusement to his expression, Dmitry decided, and one he didn't like at all. "Go on," he said, waving a hand at him. "Get out of here. I didn't hire you to sit around whining about your love life to me."

And wasn't that just like him, Dmitry thought darkly, as he pushed his chair in and headed for the door. Well, nevermind that. He had things to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops kind of forgot this existed for a while and finals ate my life but here I am again, boys.


End file.
